


feeling's old but it's new to me

by youabird (nevulon)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016-2017 NHL Season, Developing Relationship, M/M, the Paris Fight Club injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 17:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevulon/pseuds/youabird
Summary: Instead, Gabe spent the rest of the ride furiously Googling, texting the other guys he knew from Team Canada and checking Twitter. None of the Team Canada boys responded. Maybe theywereat practice; Gabe cursed Skinner either way. What was the point of having spies on the other teams if they couldn't even tell you if your sort-of boyfriend was dead in Paris somewhere?





	feeling's old but it's new to me

**Author's Note:**

> this is the (highly fictionalized) story of how Tyson got injured at Worlds in May 2017. as such, there is some reference to a pretty serious injury, but it happens off-screen and also Tyson is very much alive and fine irl. I don't own, don't read if you are depicted herein, etc. lastly, I do NOT accept the trade that happened this offseason and am in denial about it, I will keep churning out fics in willful ignorance until I die, this I promise you.
> 
> title from I Just Do by Dear and the Headlights.

1\. 

They got together one last time before they all split up for the summer. EJ hosted—how Gabe had convinced him, he couldn't say, but he'd begged, cajoled and pleaded until EJ had given in. It just made sense; Gabe's apartment was spacious but entirely indoors. Spring had sprung mild and sunny over the Rockies, and no one wanted to be cooped up inside. 

So they gathered in EJ's backyard, the guys who hadn't left already. Dutchy had disappeared at the first conceivable moment, and Beauchemin, fuming about being bought out, was unlikely to show his face. Everyone else, it seemed, had shown up. EJ had turned on the grill and opened his patio doors, allowing the team to sprawl all over his deck chairs and his lawn, giving them space to send their wretched season off in style. 

Gabe arrived late. It was unlike him, especially for a team event, but in his defense, he'd been packing for Worlds. He wasn't the only guy going—far from it—but it was still a good excuse.

EJ disagreed on this point though, and he had told Gabe that, at some length. No sooner had Gabe arrived than EJ had caught him and started badgering him. "There's like a dozen guys going to Worlds," EJ pointed out, as he flipped burgers on the grill. EJ was unreasonably attached to his grill, and wouldn't let anybody else have the run of it. "Everybody else can manage to show up on time. What'd you do? Get lost?" 

"Driving here?" He was at EJ's house almost as often as his own. Shaking his head, Gabe scanned the crowd. The guys were relaxing, chatting, and at the far end of the lawn, playing a rambunctious game of horseshoes. Someone had gotten the set for EJ as a joke, and then, as usual, the team had become obsessed and ultracompetitive about it. Every few seconds there was either a metallic _clang_ or someone yelling about the rules.

"You never know. It's been a while since you've come over, you know."

"Make better food and I'd come over more," Gabe said, which was a lie. He didn't require bribing to visit, especially not with EJ's questionable culinary achievements. "Besides, I've been a little busy this season, what with the team being terrible and all."

EJ snorted and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. "Isn't that the truth."

It had gotten so bad in the middle of the season that Gabe had had to go to Sakic on bended knee and beg not to be traded, to be part of the rebuild in Denver. It had worked, at least for now. The season had been a living nightmare, and they'd shed good guys, good friends, along the way, but it was over at last. They'd kept plenty of good guys, too. They'd acquired a handful of energetic rookies and some solid trades, and they'd managed to hold onto the core crew. Unfortunately, they were still playing like shit; they'd limped through their last inglorious month of the season to a last-in-the-league finish.

But they were here. The guys were laughing and drinking and nobody was throwing hands, even the horseshoe players who were still arguing about the rules.

Gabe couldn't see, from where he and EJ were up on the deck, who was playing horseshoes on the lawn. Most of the usual suspects were accounted for, sure, but not everyone. Who was that, he wondered, craning his neck, standing behind Mikko down by fence?

"Looking for someone?" EJ said slyly.

Caught, Gabe pretended to take interest in the hamburgers crisping on the grill. "I'm not looking for anyone," he said. "And that's on fire."

EJ flipped the still-smoking burger with an unconcerned air. "You're getting pretty obvious about that crush, Gabe. It's getting difficult to say who's more embarrassing, you or him."

"Don't be cute."

"But I can't help it," EJ said, fluttering his eyelashes. "Besides, you're cuter. Is that where you've been hiding out, when you _used_ to come hang out with me?"

"I see you all the time," Gabe pointed out.

"You see _him_ all the time." He sniffed in mock-offense, but his mouth was curling upwards behind his beer bottle. "Anyway, he's down there with the rookies, feeding them sangria."

Gabe spun; Tyson, the person Gabe had been looking for since the moment he'd arrived, was at the far side of the yard, near the flowerbeds, a crowd of rookies gathered around him. His hands were flailing in a way that usually meant he was telling a story. He was barefoot, his flip-flops tucked into his pocket, and he was wearing one of his huge shiny watches with a plain black t-shirt and ratty old shorts.

Gabe's heart leapt at the sight of him.

"Ew," EJ said, mildly disgusted. "You know what your face looks like right now?"

Gabe could guess. "I'm going to go mingle," he said, and he grabbed EJ's beer. EJ squawked at him as he walked away, but he pretended not to hear.

The thirty yards to Tyson felt like an eternity. Everyone wanted to say hi to him, to thank him for the season, to explain their summer plans. Gabe slapped backs and shook hands until his palm started to hurt. A few guys had brought their families, a handful of wives and a couple of apple-cheeked kids who Gabe hadn't seen since the start of the season. Even the people whose names he'd forgotten months ago seemed genuinely happy to be here. _Everyone_ was happy. The season had been a miserable, awful, stinking disappointment, and nobody was sad to see the back of it.

Well, Gabe was sad, a little. It was a year of his career, wasted. Worlds was an honor, but it would never be anything but his second choice.

Tyson caught his eye while he was still standing with Picks and Mikko, letting them vent their worries about Worlds like _he_ was some kind of expert. Gabe smiled at him, warmth rising from his stomach until it filled his chest. The top of Tyson's cheeks turned pink, and Gabe felt lighter than air.

It was a crush. Gabe knew it. It was bad; Gabe could feel it. It was Tyson and that was inconvenient and not a little surprising, but frankly, Gabe didn't care.

It had started sometime over the winter, when Gabe had noticed himself trying to make Tyson laugh six or seven times a day. It was in the worst depth of their season, after Iggy was traded, when they couldn't buy a win. In the midst of that desolation, the only person who ever laughed was Tyson—he told jokes and kept Nate from exploding and basically dragged the team through the bleakest weeks all on his own. Gabe had been grateful, but more than that, he'd been obsessed. He wanted to be around Tyson, all the time.

He'd used every excuse he could think of: want to grab breakfast at this cafe Comes told me about? Want to stay and practice one-timers? Want to come over and watch the Nuggets game? Tyson had said yes, hesitantly at first, and then kept saying it. Now it was so bad, their days so firmly intertwined, that after twenty-three hours apart, Gabe was dying to talk to him, immediately, now.

Tyson's eyes were fixed on Gabe's. He had trailed off from whatever he was saying, mouth slightly open and shiny from booze. Gabe had never been listening to Mikko or Picks but he was ready to give up the pretense. "Sorry," he said, interrupting Mikko complaining about the split-country hosts, "I'll be right back."

Maybe not right back. Tyson's blush deepened as Gabe came closer, until his face was flaming. Gabe loved that. They'd been flirting for five years, with intent for months, and Tyson still turned red each time Gabe gave him the eyes. "Hi," Gabe said, planting himself between JT and the other Tyson, Tyson Jost. "What are you guys talking about?"

"Worlds," JT said, not surprisingly. "Yeah, Tyson here—" he nodded at Jost "—was asking about it, what it's all about. We were just telling him about it."

The elder Tyson, Gabe's Tyson, rolled his eyes. JT had been scared shitless the day he got the call from Team USA, but now he was trying to act like a seasoned vet. Gabe suppressed his own smile and nodded, hoping he looked serious. "It's a big responsibility, obviously, but it's a lot of fun. It's a great chance to hang out with the guys from back home, too."

"Yeah, Tyson was saying," said Jost. He beamed at Gabe. He was always beaming. He'd signed with the club a week and a half ago and had thoroughly enjoyed every miserable minute since. "He was telling us about going to Monaco with Brayden Schenn and _Sidney Crosby_. That must have been awesome!"

"It was pretty fucking great, actually," Tyson said.

"What about you, Gabe?" Jost asked. "What are you and the rest of Team Sweden doing after the tournament?"

"I don't know," Gabe said truthfully. The Sweden boys had been blowing up his phone for weeks now—it had been obvious since December that the Avs would have the whole summer free and clear—but he'd avoided ensnaring himself in any particular plan. "Gotta go out and win first, right, Tyson?"

Tyson grinned. "We've got Nate."

"Who needs Nate when you've got _me?_"

Tyson shook his head, eyes rolling, and the sun caught on the edge of his scruff that he was too lazy to ever shave properly. Gabe felt a spark of heat somewhere in his belly. Tyson's facial hair was terrible but Gabe was a weak, weak man who wanted to feel that scruff up against his neck.

"Might be getting just a little ahead of yourself there, Gabe," Tyson said. He scratched his jaw and the sound made the hair on the back of Gabe's neck stand up.

Gabe didn't even notice he'd been spoken to. "What?" he said abruptly. Tyson blushed again, no doubt conscious of where Gabe's mind was at.

"Uh," JT said. He cleared his throat and delicately stood on Jost's foot to get his attention. "Maybe we should get some more drinks, Tyson?"

"No," Gabe said. In real life as on the ice, when he saw an opportunity, he took it. "Tys and I will get them. Here, give me your cups."

The rookies looked unsure, but Gabe was the captain and that meant something, even during the offseason. They handed their Solo cups to Gabe, who handed them to Tyson. Partly it was to make Tyson scowl, but mostly it was so he could put a guiding hand on Tyson's back and steer him into the house.

Tyson wasn't small, and he had a lot of fight in him—Gabe had seen him wrestle guys much bigger than he was and miraculously not get his ass kicked. But he let Gabe push him through the backyard, his arms full of cups, and he didn't even try to stop to talk to people. People said hello but Tyson obligingly kept walking. The power of it all was going to Gabe's head; he was reaching dangerous levels of smugness. Based on the smirks he was receiving from his teammates, they could tell.

He only dropped his hand to open the sliding door and then pull it shut again. The air conditioning was on in the kitchen, droning softly, and Gabe's bare arms prickled. Tyson, in his shorts and bare feet, didn't appear to notice. He just put down his jumble of solo cups on the counter, craning his neck around the room.

"I don't know where the sangria is. I think somebody moved it. Did you see it, when you came in?" Tyson asked, because he was _the densest person alive._ He was lucky he was so cute.

Wasting no more time, Gabe put his hands on Tyson's shoulders and pulled him into his arms.

"Oh," Tyson said. His voice was a half-octave deeper than it had been. "Now? In EJ's kitchen? I respect it, I just don't get it. Is it the shorts?"

"It's everything, you idiot," Gabe said, and then he kissed him.

They hadn't kissed before. It hadn't been possible while the season was still shuddering to an ignoble end. Even after the trade deadline, when they had both improbably found themselves still on the Avalanche roster, acting on this crush had seemed as unlikely as winning the Cup. But Gabe didn't care anymore. All he cared about was kissing Tyson within an inch of his life.

At first Tyson stood perfectly still, but after a moment he relaxed and buried his hands in Gabe's hair, dragging him right where he wanted. He used more tongue than Gabe thought was strictly appropriate for a first kiss, but Gabe liked it.

The kiss lasted forever. Gabe meant to pull away but he kept kissing Tyson, reveling in it. It had been a long time coming. He didn't want to stop, but he also didn't want to be walked in on by a teammate. Even when he managed to finally step back, he couldn't bring himself to let Tyson go.

"Bold," Tyson said, when he opened his eyes again. He looked delighted with this turn of events. "Shooting your shot right here in the kitchen."

"Couldn't help myself," Gabe said. He had his hand fisted in Tyson's t-shirt, but he could feel the heat rising off the small of his back. Gabe's lower lip already felt tender from the rasp of Tyson's stubble, a delicious stinging hurt. "Besides, it was worth it."

Tyson rolled his eyes even as he turned bright red. Gabe took the opportunity afforded by his momentary distraction to stick his hand up the back of his shirt. Not with any real intent, but just because. "Fucking sweet-talker," Tyson complained, but Gabe just grinned at him.

"When do you leave for Worlds?" he asked.

"Day after tomorrow. You?"

"Same," Gabe said. That gave them forty-eight hours at the outside for sex. "Gonna say hi to Skinner for me?"

"You don't want me to say hi to Factor?"

Gabe narrowed his eyes. Tyson had had a pretty intense crush on Factor for a number of years. "No."

Tyson laughed. His hands were idly toying with the back of Gabe's collar, but he looked thoughtful. "We should get back out there."

"No we shouldn't," Gabe said, affronted. "We should stay in here the rest of the night." EJ had at least two guest bedrooms and a basement media room with a couch that reclined all the way back. But Gabe wasn't that picky; Tyson was still pink from being kissed, and warm, and close. At this point, Gabe was willing to risk it all on the kitchen counter.

"EJ likes you better than me. I'm not brave enough to fool around in his house," Tyson said. "Come on. I think horseshoes is calling my name."

He grabbed Gabe's hand and hauled him out from the kitchen and onto the deck, the air still thick with smoke from the grill and the smell of freshly cut grass. "I'd protect you," Gabe said grumpily, getting grumpier still when Tyson dropped his hand before the rest of the team could see it. "I would definitely protect you from EJ."

Although Tyson looked amused, he didn't swoon into Gabe's arms. "Oh, would you?" he said, smirking. "Good to know." Then he bounced down the steps, headed back out onto the lawn, pausing just long enough at the bottom of the stairs to say, "Come find me later!"

He could not be stopped. Gabe watched as Tyson collided with Picks, hugged him bodily, then flitted off to Nate and the guys playing horseshoes. Tyson at a party was a force of nature; in any group setting, Tyson was dangerously outgoing, but with his team, on a beautiful spring day with the clusterfuck of the season behind him, he was at his best, brightest self.

Gabe's crush was out of control. And as he watched Tyson steal Nate's horseshoe and fling it, badly, somewhere to the left of the post, he felt it growing like a weed.

He saw EJ coming, hands full of empties and a vicious glint to his eye, but he didn't move. He figured the interrogation would come sooner or later, and he decided to get it over with. Sure enough, EJ paused pointedly at the kitchen threshold. "Did the two of you have sex in my house?"

"Don't be disgusting," Gabe said briskly. He pulled the sliding door open so that EJ wouldn't have to set the recycling down. "We barely kissed."

"You defiled my house. That is fine-worthy."

"No it's not," Gabe said. "Besides, the season's over. Take it up with me in September."

"It'll collect interest," EJ warned.

Gabe shrugged, a helpless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Below on the lawn, Tyson was trying to get the rookies to do the wave, thoroughly embarrassing himself and making everyone in his orbit laugh. "Don't care. He's worth it."

Recoiling, EJ looked like he'd been slapped. "Now who's being disgusting?"

He was, and he knew it. Who cared. He'd woken up with a revelation before their last game of the season, the day they'd gotten piteously squashed by the Blues. They'd lost two of their last three games and had no reason to expect anything different in St. Louis, and were guaranteed to post the worst record in Avalanche history. And Gabe had sat up straight in his hotel bed and decided that it was over. The worst had come to pass.

If the team could survive a season like that, it could handle him dating Tyson.

As much as he wanted to be at Tyson's side, he forced himself to make his rounds of the guys. It was the last team event of the season, the last chance to say goodbye and thank you to the boys. For some of them, it was the last time Gabe would ever be their captain; he was acutely aware of the expansion draft looming over their heads, as well as the normal cycle of trades, free agency and retirement.

He shook hands. He said hello to wives and partners and remembered just less than half of their names, which he considered a heroic achievement. He took a few guys, like Picks, to the side and thanked them especially for what they'd given to the team. No matter where he was in the yard, he kept Tyson in his eyeline, and he was sure that Tyson was doing the same. He felt like two planets orbiting the same fixed point, circling around each other but not quite meeting.

It was a good party. Tyson Jost got tipsy on wine and laid down on the grass, pointing at clouds as they raced across the darkening sky. Comeau's wife Lacey sat with Gabe for a long time on the patio and they talked about Kitchener, where she'd grown up. After a rousing round robin tournament, Nate was crowned king of horseshoes. He gloated about it at some length, until EJ got fed up, came over and soundly kicked his ass, and then made fun of him for sulking over it.

"That's what you get for talking so much shit," Gabe observed, when Nate stomped past him to get a consolation beer. "I mean, it's _his_ game. Of course he's going to be good at it."

"I could still kick your ass," Nate said darkly, which was how Gabe got roped into playing horseshoes. He lost in humiliating fashion, but Tyson stood next to him and whispered terrible advice for every throw, so Gabe considered it, on balance, a win.

Appetite for embarrassing himself fully sated, he passed the baton to Soda. Tyson was standing there, looking enormously pleased him with himself, his crossed arms making his biceps look particularly good against the broad planes of his chest. "Your advice was fucking useless," he told Tyson, who grinned at him.

"Maybe I wanted Nate to win. He gets pretty unbearable when he loses."

That was just the kind of shit that Tyson might pull, but Gabe didn't even mind. Instead, he threw an arm around Tyson's shoulders, and Tyson laughed softly but made no move to dislodge his arm. Soda was losing terribly to Nietsy, who was either a ringer or the luckiest beginner of all time. Gabe let himself relax into the feeling, trying not to let _all_ of his joy show on his face.

Tyson stayed under his arm, but he couldn't help himself from viciously heckling. "Fucking appalling, Soda, are you blind in both eyes?" he called after Carl made an egregious throw. Gabe, helpless with laughter, put his face on Tyson's shoulder and laughed until his sides hurt.

Sometime after twilight, the game went from difficult to follow to impossible to see, and even when EJ switched the outside lights on it wasn't worth it. They returned to the patio, and Gabe sat in the chair next to Tyson's, as close to him as possible while Tyson pretended he wasn't smiling about it. The party had thinned out while they'd been playing; it thinned out further over the next hour, as people gathered their dates and their leftovers and hit the road. Gabe waved but didn't get up to say goodbye. He had his foot tucked behind Tyson's bare ankle beneath their chairs; he refused to move an inch apart from him.

"Okay," EJ said, checking his watch in the dim bulb of the patio lights. There were only five or six guys left, including Josty, who was napping on a couch inside. Night had truly fallen, as dark and heavy as a sable blanket. "I'm going to call it. This party is over, and with it the 2016-2017 Avalanche season. Good one, captain. We all survived."

"It was a team effort," Gabe said. It really had been. They'd won together—rarely—and they'd lost together, often. And now they were through it, on the other side. "I'm honored just to have played a part in it."

"What a speech, Landy," EJ said. "You know what you can play a part in now? Helping me clean up."

Tyson offered, half-heartedly, to help, but Gabe shook him off. Instead he just brushed his knuckles against Tyson's arm, delighting in the way it made Tyson shiver.

"I saw that," EJ said, as Gabe handed him a stack of empty plates and beer cans, "That's fine-worthy too."

Gabe could not think of anything clever or cutting to say; he couldn't stop smiling. EJ shook his head in disdain.

When Gabe got back outside, Tyson was down on the patio, liberating himself a soda from the bottom of EJ's cooler. When he pulled it free from the bottom of the tub, he stood up and immediately wiped the damp can off on his shorts. He smiled when he noticed Gabe standing there, watching him. Gabe felt desperately fond of him, from his bare toes to his perfectly slanted eyebrows, every inch of him.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

Tyson nodded. "Walk me to my car?"

Gabe had a better idea. Everybody else had gone inside or gone home; it was just the two of them. "Come home with me."

To his surprise, Tyson gave him a very sunny smile and then said, "No."

"What?" It stung, of course it did. He was wild about Tyson, had been for months, and Tyson had never hidden how he felt about Gabe.

"You're trying to get on my good side so I'll go easy on you at Worlds."

"Tyson, we're not in the same group," Gabe reminded him. "We won't even be in the same country."

"Worried you won't make the finals?" Tyson teased. He walked up the stairs and dropped his flip-flops onto the deck, grabbing Gabe's shoulder to steady himself as he slid on his shoes. Gabe slid an arm around his waist for no other reason than he could.

"Do I look worried?"

Tyson ignored that. "Gabe," he said, sounding serious now, his grip on Gabe's shoulder not painful but resolutely there, as if to make a point. "It's a long summer. I don't want to do anything we can't take back."

"I'm not going to take it back."

Tyson sighed. He trailed his hand from Gabe's shoulder to his elbow, as reluctant to let go of Gabe as Gabe was to step back from him. "Let's just leave it til September, okay?"

"What if we see each other at Worlds?" Gabe asked. He sneakily pulled Tyson closer by the hip.

Snorting, Tyson allowed himself to be pulled. "If we see each other at Worlds, it's going to be Canada kicking your ass." No way would Canada kick Sweden's ass, but it was important to let the enemy get overconfident. Not that Gabe cared about Worlds at this moment.

"I think this could be good," Gabe said, very quietly.

"Me too," Tyson said. "So let's not force it long-distance for four months. We'll see each other in September. If you still want to then, I'm not gonna say no to you."

Gabe groaned and let his forehead clunk against Tyson's collarbone. "That's so far away," he complained.

He felt rather than heard Tyson's exhale. Tyson followed it by hauling him up by the hair, gently enough not to hurt but without room for argument. "That's the whole point, Gabe," he said, sounding slightly annoyed, but before Gabe could parse that, they were kissing again.

It was cold now, the air holding no heat at night, and Gabe shamelessly exploited it to ruck up Tyson's shirt and get at his bare skin. In retaliation, Tyson bit his lip just hard enough to sting. Tyson was a good kisser, but bossy, and he moved too fast; Gabe wanted to spend days forcing him to slow down. It was bullshit that he'd have to wait until September to try.

Again, he tried to pull away and defeated himself, kissing Tyson's lower lip twice more before he could break away. "September, eh?" he said.

Tyson nodded and tugged on his hair, just enough to make his skin buzz. "September," he promised.

He walked Tyson to his car and kissed him again at the driver's side door, pressing the pads of his fingers into the divots of Tyson's lower back to anchor them both. It could have lasted forever, if Gabe had had his way; he mourned how close EJ's guest room was. Tyson sweetly kissed the corner of his mouth and then firmly disentangled himself from Gabe's arms.

"See you in Paris," he said, shutting the car door with a snap.

"No you won't, the final's in Cologne," Gabe said, but Tyson had started the engine and hadn't heard. He waved as he reversed out of the driveway. And Gabe, heart full of tenderness and exasperation both, stood there waving until Tyson peeled off around the corner and out of sight.

2\. 

Whatever else it was, Worlds was, without question, a party. Sure, there were practices and games every day, and it was hard work, but there was a loose, joyful energy that no amount of skating could dampen. Tre Kronor was a non-stop flurry of activity. The minute Gabe touched down in Cologne, he was folded into the chaos. His days naturally collapsed into a predictable but punishing rhythm: Sightseeing, practice, team dinner, bed; shopping, scouting other games, their own games, bed. It was exhausting, but it was fun.

It was not so exhausting that Gabe didn't have time to check his phone. All his spare energy was devoted to his cellphone, holding it up to the window in his hotel room and reflexively pulling it from his bag whenever they had a moment in the locker room. Not that his struggles were being rewarded—Tyson hadn't said shit to him since the first day of the tournament.

Whatever. Gabe didn't care. Tyson was a ridiculous person and Gabe was busy trying to win a Gold medal. The roster was even younger than usual, it seemed, and suddenly Gabe was not just an alternate captain but also an adult. Lindy and Willy and the others didn't feel that much younger than him, but they were still in the tail end of that teenage-eating phase, where they simply could not get enough food in their bodies. Breakfast with them was, consequently, an ordeal.

"Don't do that," Gabe told Lindy, who ignored him and put spicy German mustard on his eggs, his bacon and his pancakes. "That's disgusting. You throw up on the ice today and you're walking home from the arena."

"You're old," Lindy said cheerfully, shoveling mustard-covered everything into his mouth. "And you've lived in the states too long, some of us like flavor."

Gabe was eating the same thing everyone else was eating, he just wasn't smothering it in condiments. "You talk too much," he said, meaning it. It was eight AM and Lindy had been jabbering non-stop since the sunrise.

Next season, Gabe would have to deal with this all the time, with Jost and Compher and whoever they drafted over the summer. He could see Jost being this kind of bright-eyed and talkative; Compher tended towards stoic, but you never knew how the young guys would come out of their shells. When Tyson first made the team, he barely spoke at all. He kept his head down and betrayed almost no personality. He hadn't been nervous—he was trying to learn the rules as fast as possible. It took until he came up for good and cemented his roster spot for his real, asshole self to shine through.

And now Tyson was in Paris, reunited with Nate and Brayden Schenn and his million boring Canadian friends. By all second- and third-hand accounts, he was living it up and lighting up the scoring race. Probably having the time of his life, too. Even though they were in the middle of team breakfast, Gabe couldn't resist the impulse to dig out his phone and check it under the table.

Nothing.

Shaking off the sting, he tuned back into the conversation. To his right, OEL was methodically laying out the strengths and weaknesses of the Finnish team. "And that's before you even get started on Aho, who's dangerous no matter where he is on the ice," he said impassionedly. Klinger nodded, yawning as he buttered toast, but OEL was unfazed. "Aho and Puljujarvi and Rantanen, _and_ idiots like you are determined to underrate them because they're not the Canadians."

Nobody was cowed by this. Klinger just kept buttering his toast. "Gabe," said Willy, who was on OEL's other side, "Who do you think is better?"

"Canada," Gabe answered. "And not just because half my team's on the roster. It's got to be Canada."

Someone further down the table said something about the Russians, who were very good offensively and downright heinous defensively, and Gabe let the conversation go. It was too loud, all twenty-something of them pinned into the hotel dining room, coaches swarming back and forth with news and questions. He thought the conversation was over until OEL said privately to him, "Don't kid yourself. The Canadian goaltending is terrible. No offense to your team, but it is."

"Offense taken," Gabe said, but mildly. "Sorry, Oliver, I just think they're better than Finland. What ulterior motive could I possibly have?"

"Your crush," OEL said, as if commenting on the weather. Gabe jerked his head up and scowled at him.

"I don't have a _crush_," he hissed.

OEL shook his head and retrieved the fork Gabe had dropped in his haste to defend himself. "You know, when you came over for dinner in Phoenix last month, you spent the whole night talking about your little defenseman? Literally, hours." He shot Gabe a pitying expression. "If you like him so much, have you considered teaching him how to _actually_ play defense?"

Gabe, in a rage, turned his chair as far away from him as physically possible.

Why hadn't Tyson texted? Gabe ate his eggs and pretended to listen to the boys complain about the arena's hot water pressure, but inside, his mind was where it usually was—on Tyson. He'd said September, but that didn't mean they couldn't talk. Gabe hadn't gone a whole summer without speaking to Tyson since Tyson had been brought up from Cleveland for good. Mostly, their summer conversations were a combination of Tyson's selfies, taken on various beaches and golf courses, and Gabe good-naturedly ribbing him, but this summer? Nothing.

Well, almost nothing. The last photo Tyson had sent had been the day he'd landed in France. Gabe pulled it up and looked at it now, scrutinizing the image for hidden clues. It was him and Nate, cuddled up together on a sofa, their legs thrown over one another. Tyson beamed up at the camera, hair wild and in his eyes, and even Nate looked, grudgingly, happy. Gabe had no idea when the photo had been taken, or by who; Tyson had captioned the photo _gay Paree_ but hadn't said anything further. Tyson looked so good in the photo: tanned, happy, his collar twisted just enough to show off his clavicle and a hint of toned chest. He didn't look like someone who was sitting around, waiting for September.

Gabe wasn't _jealous_. Tyson didn't owe him anything, and besides, he knew Tyson wasn't smooth. Gabe had been the one to make a move—Tyson might have gone the rest of time without ever shooting his shot. Only, Tyson seemed pretty damn content to pass the summer in radio silence. Was Tyson letting him down easy, cushioning the blow by waiting until September to deliver it?

Gabe didn't think so. Tyson had been telling him how hot he was for years, and besides, Tyson hadn't kissed him in EJ's driveway like he was trying to be polite. 

While Gabe was still admiring the photo, Nate texted him. Not in the team groupchat, which was so overwhelmingly full of nonsense during the first few weeks of summer that Gabe kept notifications muted, but in a message just to him. He registered the name and that it was unusual, but that was all—it was rude of him to be glued to his phone, when the team was here and important, too. Nate could wait. With mild reluctance, he shoved his phone back into his pocket, Nate's message unread.

"Oh, wow," Lindy said, from across the table, grinning from ear to ear. "It's been so long since we've seen your face, Gabe. I thought your neck was like that permanently."

Gabe did not blush. He felt a mild pang of embarrassment at being called out, but he did not blush. Instead, he picked up a bread roll and beaned Lindy in the shoulder. It was worth it, despite getting yelled at by both Lundqvists and Nicke's dead, furious eyes boring into him through the rest of breakfast.

Consequently, it was midmorning before Gabe actually looked at Nate's text. The team had boarded the bus to practice, the massive coach bus rolling through downtown Cologne, and Gabe was sitting with Everberg. Everberg was a nice guy who had played for the Avs, a few years back, and was eager to hear stories about how the team had changed since he'd left. Nobody, not even Soda, wanted to talk about the Avs at Worlds. Since all Gabe wanted to do was talk about Tyson, or at least things tangential to Tyson, Everberg was his new favorite person on the team. 

Everberg was nodding, listening to Gabe explain their big roster changes, when Gabe decided to show him a recent picture of the guys. He had one from EJ's barbecue, the boys crowded around the horseshoe set at the bottom of the lawn, squinting at the camera in the late afternoon sun. Tyson was in the front middle of the photo, his elbow brushing against Gabe's; Gabe had looked at that picture a dozen times since it was taken, memorizing each detail. As he went to bring up the picture, he saw the notification for Nate's last message. He decided to check the message while he had his phone out—surely that wasn't rude.

"Sorry," he said, shrugging at Everberg, "Just got a quick text from Nate."

"Still a huge freak about hockey?" Everberg asked, not unkindly.

"Huge freak," Gabe confirmed. He opened his texts, and then he paused. Nate's message blinked at him, the little blue bubble sitting there like an unexploded bomb. It read:

_Don't freak out but Tyson got hurt last night. hes in the hospiral but hes totally fine I swear._

All the blood drained out of Gabe's face. Beside him, Everberg shifted uneasily. "Bad news?"

"Kind of," Gabe said. He sent a rapid fire message back. _What!!!!!! Nate!!!!!!!!!_

No response. Nate had read receipts on, because he didn't care if people knew he was ignoring them, but nothing happened—Gabe's message changed to 'Delivered' and then thirty seconds later, the screen dimmed. Rationally, Gabe knew that Nate was probably just away from his phone, but he felt a raw spike of panic in his throat despite himself. He called Nate; it went straight to voicemail.

"Everything okay?" said Everberg.

"Yeah," Gabe said. He called again, but it bounced. "I think so, anyway." It was a few hours earlier in Paris. Nate could be at practice, or in a team meeting, or any mandatory obligation that went along with playing in an international tournament. But he could also be in the hospital, Tyson splayed out next to him, blue and not breathing. "Do you mind if I—?"

He didn't finish his thought, and Everberg didn't push. Instead, Gabe spent the rest of the ride furiously Googling, texting the other guys he knew from Team Canada and checking Twitter. None of the Team Canada boys responded. Maybe they _were_ at practice; Gabe cursed Skinner either way. What was the point of having spies on the other teams if they couldn't even tell you if your sort-of boyfriend was dead in Paris somewhere? 

Luckily, some reporter had the scoop, otherwise Gabe probably would have torn his own hair out in distress. According to Twitter, Tyson had hurt his leg wrestling a teammate and was out for the remainder of the tournament. Gabe absorbed that news right as they pulled into the arena for morning skate, in preparation for their game against Latvia. Everyone was bustling around him, grabbing their shit and getting off the bus, but Gabe remained seated, taking steadying breaths in and out.

"Gabe?" said Soda, when most of the team was off the bus. Gabe tore his gaze away from the seat in front of him. "We're here. It's time to get off the bus." 

"Did you hear that Tyson's out for the rest of the tournament?" Gabe demanded.

"Yeah, Nate texted the groupchat," Soda said. His face gave no sign that the tournament-ending injury of a close friend was surprising. "They're saying he injured his leg wrestling with a teammate. Which sounds like Tyson." 

"I'm going to _kill him_," Gabe said, balling his fists so tight his tendons hurt.

"Okay," Soda said, "But maybe after the Latvia game?"

Gabe was not a worrier by nature. He was a hothead; he knew this about himself. He had spent the last year agonizing over his career and the team and even the franchise itself, but worrying didn't come naturally to him. Being angry did, and it was easy to be angry. Tyson hadn't aggravated a hidden injury or been hit by a car while coming back from dinner, he'd been wrestling. It was so stupid and so dumb, and Gabe was so, so angry with him.

And sad. Weirdly sad. Tyson was leading the scoring race with seven points, and now he was shut down for the rest of the tournament. Gabe felt a pang of bone-deep sympathy for him. The season had been so long and so painful, and Tyson had just turned into the wind and pushed through it. Seeing him clean up in the scoring race had been a small but fierce pleasure for Gabe, who'd checked the Canada box scores each morning after waking. And now Tyson was hurt and his tournament was over, and there would be no more hockey for him until October.

Between the two feelings, though, Gabe would always choose anger, at least in the short-term. He didn't have time to mourn Tyson's chance to be recognized for his scoring, not when they had a game against Latvia; anger he could use. He bore no particular ill-will against the Latvians, who were a decent team but not a serious threat to their chances, but if he hit a little harder and skated a little faster, that was all the better for Team Sweden. That's what his teammates seemed to think, anyway. The other Swedes gave him a wide berth through their morning practice and even warmups after lunch. Gabe, so caught up in his own feelings, barely noticed. 

If he'd been with the Avs, no one would have let him go the entire day in a rage like this. As captain, Gabe wouldn't dream of marinating in his own feelings instead of carefully managing the team, but even if he had, the team would have shut that shit down. EJ would call him out, and Nate would completely ignore him until he pulled his head out of his ass. And Tyson would make him laugh, skillfully defusing the tension the way that he always did.

But on Tre Kronor, he wasn't the captain. He was just another alternate who channel all his fear and frustration into his game. And thinking about Tyson made his stomach hurt, so he pushed all thought of him away and turned his mind back to hockey.

He scored the game winner, not ten minutes into the first period. He didn't know it was the game-winner until Lindholm collected an insurance goal deep in the scoreless third, but the satisfaction of a good goal in a hard-fought game kept his mind from going crazy. And winning, even in a game he'd never thought they might lose, was some consolation for his horrible day.

After coach had praised them and the assistant coaches had reminded them of their military-strict timetable for the rest of the evening, the team raced to strip off their pads and get into the showers. Gabe was fielding back slaps and affectionate ruffles of the hair from all sides. Nobody was holding his weird, standoffish behavior today against him, except maybe Everberg, who gave Gabe an apologetic look as he took a different seat, far from Gabe at the back of the bus. Gabe had to admit that that was fair.

On the hotel elevator after a rushed dinner in the hotel restaurant, Hedman turned to Gabe, his face lit by the green fluorescent number ticking the different hotel floors. "By the way," he said, apropos of nothing, "I heard about your friend, the Canadian one."

Gabe's stomach sank like an anchor. "Tyson."

"Yeah," Heddy said. He yawned. The youngsters were halfway to dozing on their feet, and Gabe was wilting with exhaustion from the whirlwind pace of the tournament, but the low buzz of worry and fear kept him jittery and awake. "I heard from Killer he was taken away by paramedics last night. Still, they say he's only out as a precaution."

Paramedics? Gabe digested that information queasily, stumbling off the elevator at the correct floor and nearly colliding with Brodin, who scowled at him. Nate hadn't mentioned _paramedics_. He hadn't seen any beatwriters mention it, either, although that could have been in deference to Tyson's privacy.

Gabe felt like he'd swallowed a stone, sitting heavy and jagged in the bottom of his stomach. His anger had disintegrated, and worse, without a game to play, there was nothing to distract him. The key card beeped as he let himself in; the room was pin-straight and orderly, empty and featureless, but Gabe took no notice. He flung himself onto the bed and checked, fruitlessly, again, to see if Tyson had texted.

Tyson was rarely injured, but when he was, he tended to go down hard. The last time they'd been to the playoffs, three years ago, Tyson had taken a hit to the knee that had ended his postseason; the Avs followed him out a few games later. Gabe had spent weeks texting Tyson non-stop, obsessing over every detail of his recovery, in a way that went far beyond the friendly concern of a captain. He'd even sent an Edible Arrangement, express mail from Sweden to Tyson's parents' house, because Tyson had been complaining about the lack of dessert. In response, Tyson had sent a photo of the mangled bouquet, having carefully picked off all the chocolate and left the fruit behind. Even though it was childish and stupid, Gabe had saved the photo and spent the next few days smiling to himself, spirits lifting each time he looked at it. 

It was possible that Gabe's feelings for Tyson had not sprung from a vacuum. It was possible that he had carried a torch for several years now, low but steady, waiting for the right moment to catalyze into something stronger.

Tyson hadn't texted. Nate hadn't either. Sighing, Gabe brushed his teeth and washed his face. And then he flossed. And then he fiddled with the air-conditioning unit, even though it was a perfect ambient temperature, hoping to delay sleep for just a few more minutes.

He was about to start refolding his socks when at last, finally, his phone lit up. He seized his phone, breath catching in his chest—what if it was Nate, or worse, just a random friend with no useful intelligence?—but it was Tyson's name in the text bubble on the lock screen, his small, pixelated face beaming up at Gabe.

_im fine and they released me from the hospital last nigh. Cut my femoral artery but I'm fine now. Lots of stitches. feeling dumb_

Gabe did not hesitate. He didn't even unlock his phone, he just hit _call_.

Unsurprisingly, Tyson picked up. He was laughing as he was doing it, but he sounded strange, almost strangled, as if he was in pain. "Hi Gabe," he said, "Desperate much?"

"When did you plan to call me?" Gabe demanded.

"Uh, in September. Like I said back in Denver. Nice goal today, by the way."

Gabe pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. "Tyson, you can't rip open your femoral artery and tell me you'll call me in September. It doesn't fucking work like that."

"Nate texted in the group chat, though."

"The fucking group chat does not count!"

Unusually for Tyson, he didn't yell back, but paused a moment, as if thinking it over. "Are you yelling at me as my captain, right now?"

Gabe's heart was hammering against his ribs, hard enough that his chest seemed to jump up and down. "No."

Down the hall, a door slammed; the pipes gurgled faintly in the walls. Tyson took his time before saying, voice halting, "So in like, the other kind of way."

"Yeah. A romantic way. Are you okay?"

Tyson laughed again. "Wanna FaceTime so you can see I'm not dead?"

Of course he did. As if he hadn't been desperate to see Tyson's face since that night in EJ's driveway, the night air cool and the skin of Tyson's lower back so warm under his hands. Gabe hit the buttons that made Tyson's face pop up on the screen. Tyson appeared, in an unfamiliar shirt, skin pallid despite his tan, his hair ratted up on one side of his head. He looked dogshit terrible, and Gabe's heart swam in dizzy little circles at the sight of him.

"Hi Gabe," Tyson said. "Wanna see my stitches?"

"I'm going to kill you," Gabe said faintly. He sank down onto the bed. "_How_, Tyson."

"Mmm." Tyson was not in the hospital. He was in some equally bland hotel room, and the fluorescent lights made the bags under his eyes look larger. He was still cute. "You're not going to like it. We set up a Fight Club, and Nate was talking trash, and I couldn't take that shit lying down. And there was this crystal salad bowl, because we were in Giroux's room, if that makes sense. And anyway, Nate knocked me onto the salad bowl and it kind of... exploded."

It was, bar none, the dumbest reason to get injured. Gabe's heart almost dropped out of his body as Tyson cheerfully recounted Vlasic staunching his bleeding leg as Nate ran around like a chicken with its head cut off until the paramedics arrived. As their captain, Gabe was furious. As a competitor, Gabe could appreciate that Canada would be less lethal without Tyson. But mostly, and most importantly, Gabe was fucking terrified.

It was probably love. Gabe didn't have another good explanation for why his heart was beating so hard in his chest, nearly twenty-four hours after Tyson had gotten hurt, long after the danger had passed. His instinct was to drag Tyson home to Denver. Gabe could bundle him up in his condo, put him to bed in the guest room where Tyson crashed all the time, just on the other side of Gabe's bedroom wall. He'd be safe there. And that tender, desperate need to keep Tyson safe, even from himself?

Okay, it was love.

"You know what the worst part of that story is?" he said, when Tyson had finished. "I still like you, even after all that."

Laughing, Tyson shook his head. He was on top of the hotel-bed coverlet, one arm behind his head, and Gabe missed him so much it felt like an ache. "I like you too. A lot. And I miss you more than I thought I was going to."

Gabe smiled. Then he asked, "Are you on drugs?"

"A little," Tyson said. It explained the glassiness to his eyes, but Tyson didn't seem out of it. He seemed tired, and in pain, and his usual bizarre, terrible self. "Like, residual codeine. But I like you even when I'm not on drugs."

"Do you miss me when you're not on drugs?" Gabe said, heart pounding even harder.

Tyson laughed again. "I miss you all the time, Gabe."

"But you wanted to wait until September."

"Ha," Tyson said. He refused to make eye contact, studying something just off-screen very hard. "Trick question. I didn't want to wait. But you're too important to me, I'm not gonna let you make a huge mistake we can't take back just because you're high on endorphins from the season being over."

Tyson kept looking away, and Gabe kept looking right at him, sure that his own expression was every bit as saccharine as EJ always said it was. "You think I only want you because of endorphins?" he asked softly.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you. It's pretty fucking great to have that season over."

It was, except that they were in different countries, and when the season was still on Gabe got to see Tyson every day. Gabe would have put up with another ten seasons like that, if it kept Tyson around. "I don't want to take it back," Gabe said.

Finally, Tyson looked back at him. His face was flaming, but he didn't flinch as he said, "Well, me either."

It was as if something slid into place in Gabe's chest. He felt it as surely as he'd felt it the morning of the Blues game, when he'd woken up and all the reasons not to pursue Tyson had melted away.

He didn't say anything. Tyson, who had never been quiet for more than thirty seconds at a time, didn't either, just watched Gabe. Gabe missed him so badly he wanted to climb through the phone screen and be wherever he was.

"Are you going to fly home, or stay with the team?"

"Hell yeah, I'm staying," Tyson said, as Gabe had known he would. Tyson wouldn't let the small matter of a life-threatening injury keep him from supporting his friends. "Gonna watch the boys kick Team Sweden's ass."

His confidence appeared total, which Gabe found both infuriating and kind of hot. That was a good summation of Tyson as a person, though. "You're not, but that's okay," Gabe said. He took a deep breath before his next question. "Can I see you after the tournament? Alone?"

Tyson paused, working his jaw as he thought about the question. "That's not September, Gabe."

"Fuck September," Gabe said, surprising even himself with his vehemence. "I'm not waiting until September. I know what I want."

"Wow. You're sure?"

Gabe nodded. "I'm sure."

Tyson's smile was tired, and lopsided the way it often was when he hadn't slept enough, but Gabe could see happiness written all over his face. It matched his own, fierce and overwhelming. "Okay," Tyson said. "Let's do this, then."

"You mean that?" Gabe asked. Laughing, Tyson dragged a hand over his face and hair, making it frizzier in the front, and he looked dumb and cute and pitiful all at once. Gabe adored him.

"Maybe it's just the codeine talking, but, what the hell, I'm all in."

"Good," Gabe said. His heart ached with love. "I'm all in, too."

3\. 

"Hi," Gabe said, in the lobby of Tyson's hotel, the morning after Canada lost to Sweden in the finals. There were definitely other members of Team Canada hanging around, and Gabe felt like enemy personnel sneaking through hostile territory. He was wearing sunglasses, which he hoped would help him blend in, but they were mostly for his massive, raging hangover. "What room are you in?"

Tyson exhaled in lieu of a greeting. "I'm still mad at you."

"Tough," Gabe said. "Tell me what room you're in."

"Room 412. If you're wearing one piece of Team Sweden gear I'm not letting you in."

Gabe smiled as he hung up. He and Tyson had had fifteen minutes in the aftermath of the gold medal shootout to talk; Gabe, expecting Tyson to be pretty broken up after the loss, had shown up mostly sober and trying to be respectful. And Tyson was upset, but he was also the same bossy shit he'd been in Denver, and thus had immediately dragged Gabe to the men's room to make out.

So, yeah. Tyson could talk a big game about being mad at him and the rest of Team Sweden, but Gabe was pretty confident that he would still let him in his room.

Luckily, no rogue members of Team Canada got off the elevator when it finally arrived, and he rode up to the fourth floor in silence. He was not nervous—he was very, very rarely nervous—but the moment felt huge and important nonetheless. He and Tyson had talked on the phone basically every night since Tyson's spectacular injury, and they had seen each other less than a day ago. But Gabe had _actually_ been high on endorphins then—the sweet thrill of having a gold medal _and_ Tyson, if only for a few minutes inside a cramped handicapped stall, was enough to make his brain melt out of his ears. Today was different. Today was _real_.

Room 412 was six left of the elevator bank. Gabe knocked once before Tyson ripped the door open, looking drawn and pale but essentially whole and unharmed. Gabe wanted to throw his arms around him, but he didn't—he felt strangely awkward, on the other side of the threshold, conscious of both Tyson's injury and the difference between a gold and silver medal.

Instead, he took off his sunglasses and spread his arms wide, showing off his outfit. "Not a speck of team merchandising on me anywhere."

"Fuck you," Tyson said, but without venom. "Get in here."

Gabe thought he just meant the room, but Tyson yanked him into a bruising hug. Gabe stumbled but caught himself, careful of Tyson's right side; Tyson had no such compunctions. He just clung onto Gabe, and Gabe let himself relax into it, enjoying the familiar strength of Tyson's chest and arms, softening slightly as he slid into the offseason.

"You stink," Tyson said, but he didn't move away. "How late were you guys up?"

"I left at three," Gabe said. Hedman had been dumping tequila into Willy's gaping mouth at the time, but Gabe could no longer tell the walls from the floor, so he'd poured himself into a cab.

Snorting, Tyson finally let go of him. With one hand, he pushed the door closed, and then he turned and limped into the room, Gabe hot on his heels. "Sounds about right."

He flung himself onto the bed, not minding the clothes that were a mixture of folded and rumpled, some in neat piles and others in loose jumbles. Tyson had never fully unpacked in a hotel room in his life, and true to form, his suitcase was a quarter-full with clothes, still folded, that he'd probably brought straight from Denver. His crutches were lying haphazardly atop it.

Gabe looked around, at all the little signs of Tyson: his toiletry bag sitting next to the TV instead of in the bathroom, all four pillows stacked in the middle of the bed, his silver medal placed reverently on the desk, ribbon neatly folded. Tyson, meanwhile, was still talking. "Yeah, Nate went out for consolation drinks and told me he'd be back before midnight. I don't know what the fuck he ended up doing but he called me at two-thirty, crying."

Gabe winced. "I'm sorry," he said, joining Tyson on the bed. There was a tiny piece of the bed not covered in Tyson's clothes, and Gabe perched there, looking at Tyson. "Jesus, Tys, I'm really sorry."

"Don't fucking apologize," Tyson said fiercely. "You wanted it just as much as we did."

That was true. Gabe did not, could not regret winning, but he was really fucking sorry Tyson had watched the game from the press box. "Next time," he said lightly, so Tyson would know he was kidding, "Don't let Nate almost kill you, and then there'll be nothing stopping you."

Tyson laughed. Gabe shoved some of his clothes out of the way and pushed incrementally closer to him, so that his knee was brushing against Tyson's good leg. Tyson was wearing athletic shorts, bright red with a maple leaf splashed along his pocket, and the mottled slash of the cut on his thigh was just visible under the hem.

It was an upsettingly large cut, although ten days of healing had lessened the shock of it. The exposed portion was at least three inches long, and Gabe was sure there was more of it, higher up Tyson's thigh. When Gabe called to yell at Nate for nearly killing Tyson, Nate had blubbered about Tyson bleeding through all of Giroux's towels. It had to have been terrifying. Gabe, still hesitant, touched the outside of Tyson's uninjured leg. "Are you still in pain?"

"No, not really," Tyson said, which probably meant _yes, but a manageable amount_. He pushed his leg into Gabe's touch. "And I don't really need the crutches either, but I don't know what to do with them. Guess I'll just take them to Italy with me."

Nodding, Gabe kept his hand where it was. Tyson's skin was warm against his palm, running hot, just like the rest of him. "How'd you manage on your crutches?"

"Oh, Nate's been taking care of me. Guess he feels guilty for almost killing me. And Factor did a lot, too, I think he just misses bossing me around."

Tyson's words pulled him up short—Gabe moved his hand away, trying to suppress the jealousy that bubbled irrationally up his throat.

Unfortunately, Tyson wasn't stupid. And he'd known Gabe for a long time now. He immediately caught the gesture and, judging by the expression on his face, the likely reason behind it. "Are you _jealous?_"

"No," Gabe lied.

"Seriously? Of _Factor?_ He's married," Tyson said. Gabe knew Factor was married. Gabe also doubted Factor would ever, in a million years, be into Tyson, but that didn't matter. It was the idea of Tyson swooning into Factor's (admittedly muscular) arms that was upsetting him. Gabe had been busy trying to win a gold medal, he couldn't be the one taking care of Tyson, but damn it, he _wanted_ to be. Tyson, undeterred, snapped his fingers in front of Gabe's face. "You think I was sneaking around Paris, making out with Ryan?"

Gabe caught Tyson's hand. "But if he wasn't married?"

"Gabe," Tyson said. He sounded annoyed, but there was a smile flitting around the edges of his mouth. "I'd make out with _you_ if you'd ever stop talking."

That did not address the merits of Gabe's argument—that he was better than Factor at taking care of Tyson, and better looking, and any other metric Tyson cared to mention—but Tyson had leaned in, lips parted and eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. Some things were more important than being right. Gabe set aside his objections, leaned in and kissed Tyson.

It started out gentle, careful little presses of their lips, Gabe touching the curve of Tyson's jaw to guide his face. It didn't stay that way for long. Tyson was willing to play at soft and shy for a moment, but his patience broke quickly. Deepening the kiss, he reached for Gabe, setting the pace and yanking Gabe right where he wanted. Gabe tried to go where he was told without jostling Tyson's bad leg; it didn't work. He slipped on one of the piles of Tyson's shirts, nearly knocking them both to the ground. "Sorry," he said immediately, reaching to touch Tyson's leg, to assure himself he hadn't done further damage.

"It's fine," Tyson said briskly, "I told you, it barely even hurts. Get up here and kiss me."

Who was Gabe to argue? Obligingly, he let Tyson half-crawl into his lap and kiss him sloppily, his bad leg dangling off the bed and Gabe holding him by the waist to keep him still. Tyson hadn't shaved—of course he hadn't—and the drag of his lower lip against Gabe's hurt in the best, most delicious way.

"Fuck," he said, reaching up to touch his own mouth. Tyson sat back on his heels and watched Gabe trace his bottom lip, his expression almost greedy. "You're going to be the death of me."

It was worth it to see Tyson pink up, from his cheeks to his hairline, but it was even better when Tyson dove back in, kissing him harder. Gabe, overwhelmed, clung to Tyson's back, digging his fingers into the muscles there. When Tyson made a small, pleased noise into their kiss, Gabe yanked his shirt up and dug his fingers in harder.

"Wait, wait," Tyson said, breathless and, again, nearly falling off the bed. Gabe had him securely, though, and didn't let him topple. "I have to tell you something."

"What?"

"I'm not cleared for sex. I have to wait another two weeks. What?" Gabe had started laughing, reckless and relieved, and it made Tyson squirm around in agitation. "Why are you laughing at me?"

"I thought it was bad news." Gabe pressed a kiss to Tyson's clothed shoulder, suddenly glad all over again that Tyson was okay.

"It _is_ bad news, Gabe, Jesus. I'm not even supposed to get my heartrate up, you shouldn't even be here."

"Tyson," Gabe said gently. Without surrendering his hold on Tyson's waist, he reached down with his other hand and touched Tyson's other knee, a few inches below the livid cut and the row of stitches. Tyson sucked in a breath and held it as Gabe traced the top of his kneecap. "You were really hurt. I mean, Nate said he thought you were gonna die."

"Oh, he did," Tyson said. He didn't seem at all fazed by this, even as he watched Gabe stroke the bottom of his thigh, inches from the cut. "That's just 'cause he's a drama queen. Besides, everybody kept lying to me and saying I was going to be fine, so it wasn't even that scary to me, just gross and painful. Nate was really fucking mad at me for bleeding so much, though, he didn't speak to me for three days. Then he started groveling."

"He texted me, the morning of. He's the one who told me you were hurt."

Tyson looked down. He was blushing harder, redness staining his cheeks as he tried to avoid Gabe's eyes. "I kind of asked him to. I didn't want you to worry. I know you don't actually read the groupchat."

Gabe's stomach writhed, but in a good way. The waiting and not knowing had been the worst part, the absolute worst—looking back, he had no idea how he'd scored against Latvia or even managed to stay upright. That Tyson hadn't wanted him to worry was a wonderful gift. He squeezed Tyson's leg, inches below the dangerous cut, trying to pour all of his feelings into the gesture.

It must not have translated. Tyson took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Look, I'm fine, Gabe. I'll be in peak condition by the start of training camp, don't you worry."

"I don't care about that, you idiot," Gabe said. Gabe had barely thought about the Avs at all since Tyson had gotten injured. The turnaround from, _Tyson is hurt_, to, _Tyson is hurt and it was nearly very serious but luckily he'll be fine_, had felt like a terrifying eon but, in reality, had been only hours. And the injury hadn't damaged Tyson's long-term hockey prospects. It had made Gabe want to bubble wrap him for his own protection, but it hadn't cost the team anything.

Tyson's mouth turned up in a smirk. "Oh, for sure."

"Fine. I care about that," Gabe admitted. He did care about the team, and how Tyson fit into it. He'd be a pretty bad captain if he just let his players run around gashing their legs open without consequences. But it was impossible to yell at Tyson when he was in Gabe's lap, pink and rumpled and mostly whole, looking like everything Gabe had wanted for months. He'd do it later, though. He was definitely looking forward to it. "I just... I'm glad you had him text me. I was _really_ worried. And I missed you."

Tyson put his hands together around the back of Gabe's neck, fingers laced. "Well, here I am."

Gabe smiled up at him. "I'm really glad you are."

For a moment, Tyson squinted at him, eyebrows furrowed. Then, deciding, perhaps, that Gabe was being too genuine, he knocked Gabe backwards onto the bed in a move that felt half-tender, half-savage. They landed in the piles of clothes, Tyson's hair half in Gabe's mouth, the smell of his laundry detergent everywhere and his elbows in Gabe's ribs.

"No more wrestling," Gabe said, repositioning them so that Tyson was only mostly crushing him. "No more wrestling, not ever."

"I can't promise that," Tyson said, pulling one of Gabe's arms up around his shoulders so that they were cuddling. He left the other one where it was, Gabe's hand still up the back of his shirt, so Gabe was happy. "I mean, Nate and I _have_ to have a rematch. Nobody technically won, because I almost died."

"No rematches. Tyson, promise me."

Tyson made a thoughtful noise that was conspicuously not a promise. "Well, not 'til my leg is better."

"No rematches _ever_," Gabe said, helpless in the face of Tyson smirking at him, his head pillowed on Gabe's shoulder. "Tyson, I swear to God."

"Shut up," Tyson said, "We're cuddling."

They were both affectionate, handsy people who didn't mind getting up in their friend's personal spaces, but Gabe didn't remember ever cuddling Tyson before. The closest they'd come was that night at EJ's, when they'd sat side by side under the stars, arms touching and playing footsie underneath EJ's Adirondack chairs. But that had been nothing to this—this was new.

Beneath his hand, Tyson's ribs rose and fell as he breathed in, slow and deep. Gabe's other arm was around his shoulders, and Tyson's good leg was tangled between both of his. His right leg he held stiffly out to the side, out of the fray. Gabe didn't mind—he had more than enough of Tyson to keep him busy, and anyway, he wanted Tyson as safe as he could be.

The day of the last regular season game, he'd decided that telling Tyson how he felt would be his reward for that smoking wasteland of a season. But this didn't feel like a reward. The season was immaterial; it felt like it had happened a million years ago. Even Worlds, even Tyson's gaping leg injury had nothing to do with this. He had told Tyson how he felt and Tyson felt the same. Now they were here, tangled up in each other, the rhythm of Tyson's breathing lulling Gabe halfway to sleep—

Or maybe all the way to sleep. He had slept but briefly the night before, and badly, rocked on a sea of champagne like a boat in a storm. Tyson was warm, and the bed was vast and comfortable. One minute Gabe was staring lovingly into his eyes, and the next his eyes were fluttering shut.

"Gabe," Tyson said, sounding amused. "You're gonna fall asleep."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah you are." Gently, Tyson smoothed the collar of Gabe's shirt out, evening out the planes of the fabric so it fell properly against his chest. "You're hungover and you're gonna fall asleep on me."

"Am I not allowed?"

"No, you're allowed," Tyson said. He left his hand where it was, the curve of his pinky brushing up against Gabe's sternum. "So long as you stay."

It was probably the most romantic thing he'd ever done, and it was just him dozing off for twenty minutes on Tyson's hotel bed with Tyson in his arms. But it felt romantic: the muted morning light blazing behind the curtains, Tyson warm and present and sprawled on top of him, the comfortable silence. The wadded-up clothes all around them smelled like Tyson's laundry detergent, a soft, clean scent with no clear analogue. After three weeks of constant games and relentless activity, it was heaven to do nothing but lie there, half-asleep and half-awake, listening to Tyson breathe.

They seemed to have skipped a few steps in this romance. They'd gone straight from flirting to this, a kind of peaceful intimacy that Gabe associated with serious relationships. Gabe had apparently been tripping into love with Tyson for a while now. In any case, this was probably the most serious relationship of his adult life—he and Tyson had been friends and teammates for five years before they became... whatever this was.

Suddenly, Gabe was very much awake. "Tyson," he said urgently, because Tyson had closed his eyes too.

Tyson cracked one eye open. He gave Gabe a fond, sweet smile, but didn't bother to open his other eye. "What?"

"You're my boyfriend."

_That_ got a reaction—Tyson, cheeks flaming, sat upright so fast that Gabe's neck cracked just following the motion. "Oh, I am?" he said, voice oddly high, as he rubbed his eyes to wake himself back up.

"You said you were all in."

"I'm not complaining," Tyson said. He looked horribly embarrassed, but as the first unpleasant shock at Tyson's reaction wore off, Gabe's smile began to grow. Tyson was always embarrassed when Gabe looked at him, or complimented him, or ragged on him. It was one of Gabe's absolute favorite things about him. Tyson was flustered, not upset, and when Gabe pulled him back into the circle of his arms, he went willingly. "Just trying to catch up, since you're like, twenty steps ahead of me. Any other important news you want to share with the class?"

"Just... don't have sex in Italy," Gabe said, tugging Tyson's hand away from his face and intertwining their fingers. Tyson shook his head, his cheeks still fiery red.

"I'm not having sex in Italy. My stitches are still dissolving inside my body."

"Well, when the stitches come out." Gabe was teasing, but he was also deadly serious, and he squeezed Tyson's hand to underline his point. "Don't."

Tyson looked down at him, his eyes searching Gabe's face. "I won't if you won't. No summer flings in Stockholm, or wherever it is you go when you're not in Denver."

There would be no summer flings. There hadn't been any flings in a while, now. There had just been Tyson, staying in his guest room, picking him up for practice with a coffee and a smile, invading his heart. It was the easiest deal he'd ever made; Gabe almost felt like it was cheating to give up so little and get so much.

"I was thinking," he said, carefully, as if he hadn't spent the last days obsessing over the topic, "Maybe I'd go to LA this summer."

"I like LA."

"I know you do, Tys."

"What are you going to do in LA?"

Gabe didn't believe in subterfuge. "Wait for you."

Tyson took another long look at him. Gabe hoped he always did this, always paused wordlessly to stare at Gabe in surprise and happiness. Then he crawled back into Gabe's arms, squeezing him tight like he was afraid to let go of him. And that was even better. Gabe hoped that never changed, either.

"I'm so glad," Tyson said, voice muffled by Gabe's shoulder, "That we aren't waiting until September."

He sounded embarrassed but happy, and he wouldn't meet Gabe's eyes. "Me too," Gabe said.

Tyson sighed. "I wish we could have sex," he said, with longing.

Laughing, Gabe pinched him on the hip, then nearly caught an elbow to the chin for his troubles. "Your fault. We could have been having sex all summer, except you had _principles_ and then Nate almost murdered you."

"Fuck principles," Tyson said. He lifted his head, digging his sharp chin into Gabe's trapezoid muscle. Gabe repositioned him, neither minding nor surprised when Tyson tried to bite his thumb in passing. "I'm never doing that again."

Gabe wasn't planning on ever letting another summer of indecision and missing each other pass them by again. "Sounds like a plan," he said, smiling from ear to ear.

They just looked at each other, smiling stupidly, hands entwined. Neither of them moved for a long time. Minutes passed as they beamed at each other at the good fortune of being together. If EJ ever heard about this, he'd fine Gabe his yearly salary and then some. Gabe didn't care. He was so happy he was considering bragging about it, to anybody who'd listen, and damn the consequences.

Tyson was the first to interrupt their reverie. Expression rapt, he reached out and tenderly traced the line of Gabe's cheekbone with his ring finger, as if to count the freckles blooming there. "Gabe," he said, "I need to eat."

The spell broken, Gabe laughed and kissed Tyson's open palm. "Can we get room service?"

"You think I'm walking somewhere? Fuck no." Tyson kept firm hold of Gabe's hand but rolled to the edge of the bed, reaching out to inexpertly snag the telephone receiver. "Let's get brunch sent up. You want a mimosa?"

Groaning, Gabe turned and pressed his face into what felt like a crumpled-up sweater. "No alcohol."

"I'm getting you a milkshake, then. What else do you want?"

There was nothing else in particular Gabe wanted, except maybe the Stanley Cup. But even that was a distant dream, one that would regain urgency in the autumn but for now was a pleasant fantasy and nothing more. Lying in Tyson's bed, the summer beckoning long, endless and with nowhere to go but LA with Tyson, Gabe didn't want for anything.

"I don't know," he said. "Surprise me."

"Mistake," Tyson said darkly, as he squirmed half-upright, the receiver cradled between his broad shoulder and the curve of his jaw. "You don't know what you're in for."

"Yeah," Gabe said, delirious with happiness, "I do."

Tyson paused, the phone still lifted to his ear, looking down at Gabe with an expression of fond annoyance. "You fucking sap," he said. Gabe, grinning, closed his eyes. His body ached from the ravages of the tournament, and it felt good to relax into the mattress, confident that Tyson was there. But just to be sure, he put his hand on Tyson's good knee, a comforting anchor to ensured Tyson was there. Without words, Tyson covered Gabe's hand with his own.

Gabe lay there, dozing, as Tyson tried in his terrible, terrible guidebook German, to say, _room service_. The future seemed to stretch out before them like an endless, benevolent possibility. The sun was shining brightly. Tyson stroked Gabe's knuckles with his thumb as he muddled through their breakfast order, an absent gesture that nevertheless seemed endlessly full of love.


End file.
